


Movements

by olivieblake



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Mirror Sex, Oral Sex, Shameless Smut, Sirius Black Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 22:34:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9093790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olivieblake/pseuds/olivieblake
Summary: "Don't you dare come on my dress," she warns, and that's when he knows he's in trouble.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [underthemistletoe](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/underthemistletoe) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
> He's leather, she's lace.  
> He's young at heart, and she's all grown up.
> 
> A room at the Leaky, a full bottle of Ogden's Finest Firewhisky, and the promise of a Christmas Eve neither will forget...

* * *

**o0o0o0o**

**Scene I: Prelude**

“You’re too young for me,” he says, though the way his tongue drags across his lip as he mentally undresses her says otherwise.

“Then you’re too _nice_ for me,” she sniffs, grabbing her drink and walking away.

He reaches out then, gripping her wrist, and she turns in time to see him look down at his own hand, eyeing it like it has acted - _highly irresponsibly_ \- of its own accord.

“Well,” she murmurs, fighting a smile. “Isn’t that interesting?”

**o0o0o0o**

**Scene II: Accelerando**

“This dress is _French lace,_ ” she hisses, biting down on his lip as he throws her onto the cold porcelain edge of the sink. “Be a little more fucking - ”

He snarls as she pulls away, choking on the effort of ‘ _I don’t give a shit’_ as her quick fingers flutter to the button of his trousers.

“ - _careful,_ ” she finishes, freeing his cock and taking it in her hand. “Unless you plan on buying me a new one.”

“I don’t,” he growls, shoving her legs apart to force himself between them, not wanting to be gentle; wanting to be _just rough enough_ to turn the self-indulgent whine between her fucking princess lips to something more manageable - something more brittle - something more _wild._

A gasp floats to a moan as she lets her head fall back; he brushes his lips against the ivory arch of her throat and then looks up, watching her. Her eyes are closed, her fingers pressing down on his hips, and in a moment of wanting to own her he bites down, _hard,_ sinking his teeth into her and then taking a long, gratifying suck, reveling a little in the thought of marring the flawless, privileged sheen of her.

“You’ll leave a mark,” she groans, taking hold of his hair and pulling it.

“That’s the idea,” he rasps, smiling a little. He runs a finger over it, the red mark that will bloom in a matter of minutes, and thinks about her finding it in the morning; thinks about her living her life - making coffee, eating breakfast, maybe going home to someone else for all he knows, though the fuck he gives is minimal - with the shadow of his imprint there to haunt her. He decides he finds this - the concept of her being burdened by her thoughts of him - to be strangely alluring, and so he bends his head to the curve of her breast, leaving a little more of tonight for her to come upon tomorrow.

She smirks; as though she _knows_ , she knows what he is doing, and she is generous, charitable, fucking _benevolent,_ as she sits back and lets him do it. “Don’t you dare come on my dress,” she warns, punctuating the threat with a languid stroke along the length of his cock.

 _Fuck,_ he thinks. _She’s trouble._

**o0o0o0o**

**Scene III: Meno Mosso**

“I have a bottle of Ogden’s in my room,” she murmurs, and he glances up, surprised; maybe he thinks she’s the kind of girl he can fuck once on the bathroom sink.

He’s wrong.

“I’m not done with you,” she clarifies, leaning forward to snatch a breathless kiss from his still-parted lips. “I want to see if the extra ten years you’ve got on me did you any good in the bedroom.”

“Ten?” he croaks, and shakes his head. “Twenty, at least.”

“Tell it to my cunt,” she whispers, and he shakes his head.

“Kids these days,” he mutters, sweeping an arm around her to lift her to her feet. She leans forward - “Room 305,” she says, pausing to suck a little on his ear lobe because fucking _why not_ \- and then shoves him brusquely out of the way, forcing herself back into the noise and the heat of the Leaky Cauldron to saunter slowly up the stairs, slipping her key into the lock and tossing her purse - _expensive_ , she knows, _but who cares_ \- down on the chair beside the fireplace.

She throws herself onto the bed next, trying not to watch the door. If he had any fucking sense he’d take his time, anyway, and she wants him to, in a way; she wants him _here,_ obviously, she wants to watch the flicker of surprise show up again in his grey eyes and she wants to put it there; _and_ , of course, she wants him - _bad_ \- but she doesn’t want it to be _too_ easy. She stands after a moment, transfiguring two glasses, but pours only one.

 _One,_ she insists quietly to herself. Just in case he didn’t -

A knock at the door. She smiles. _He did._

“Come in,” she says, flicking her wand to undo the latch. She makes a point not to watch as he slips inside, ducking his head as he enters, but _does_ decide to turn to catch him pausing at the door, his back pressing against it after it closes.

“This is a bad idea,” he mutters, shaking his head; but now, like before, he’s eyeing her, his eyes and his mouth in total disagreement as he stares.

She smirks. She knows she has this effect.

“Cheers to that,” she agrees, levitating the glass and nudging it towards him. “Drink,” she suggests. “It’ll make it seem better.”

“You’re awfully cavalier about this,” he comments, bringing the glass to his lips. _His lips,_ she thinks, watching them. There’s a dark scruff that frames them, the barest scrape of facial hair, and it’s not like Draco’s, which over time has felt very _for show._ This is different; it’s careless and brooding and _adult_ , and his lips are still full from kissing her, from being held hungrily between her teeth. He takes a sip, shutting his eyes for a moment, and then looks up at her, waiting.

“Finish the glass,” she demands, a little snottily, and he flashes her the briefest half smile.

“Why?” he asks. “Don’t you want me in control of my faculties?”

“If you can’t handle the _glass_ ,” she says impatiently, gesturing to it, “you’re not at all the type of man I thought you were.”

“The type of man who would come on your dress, you mean?” he prompts, knocking back a gulp of firewhisky and then shaking it off - _a little like a dog,_ she thinks, and then abandons the thought as he steps towards her, daring her with the slightest lift of his brow.

“You seem like the kind of man who knows his way around lace,” she tells him carefully, which, in her view, is a compliment. He seems to know this, which she appreciates. “ _That_ was just pre-emptive strike.”

“What else do I seem like?” he challenges her, and feeling a game afoot, she takes a long, indulgent sip of her firewhisky, settling into her move.

“You think I’m too young,” she says, “which means you have a conscience. And it upsets you,” she adds carefully, offering him a smile, “because you _also_ want to know how your cock feels in my mouth.”

He swallows. She glorifies in his discomfort.

“Which is convenient,” she assures him, picking up the bottle of Ogden’s and walking towards him, “as I find myself with certain corresponding curiosities.”

She fills his drink and undoes his trousers in nearly the same movement but she takes her time sinking to her knees, making certain his eyes are following the swell of her breasts as they press against his chest on the way down to his cock.

“Hm,” she says, taking a lick. He’s already hard - or _still_ hard - and whatever the case is, she likes it. She licks again, letting her tongue linger around the head of his cock, and _fuck,_ he’s coming undone, and she fucking loves it.

“Tastes like” - a long lick up his shaft, and then she takes him in her mouth - “ _mm._ ”

“What,” he pants, barely managing the word. “What does it - ”

“Like _experience_ ,” she informs him primly, “and a sleepless night.”

“Fuck,” he remarks, and she silently agrees.

**o0o0o0o**

**Scene IV: Allegretto**

He looks down and immediately regrets it. She’s just fucking _asking_ for him to come on her tits. Dress be damned.

He yanks her up and turns her, his fingers shaking a little as he undoes the zipper. _Lace,_ he thinks, and wishes he could rip it, wonders if she’s -

 _She is,_ he sighs internally, glimpsing the thin lace of her obviously expensive lingerie; he thinks about ripping that, too, but she takes advantage of his pause, shimmying out of the dress and letting it fall to the floor.

He looks. He fucking takes a good, _long_ look.

 _She knows,_ he thinks, watching her watch him; she _fucking_ _knows_ how good she looks, and the same piece of him that wants to rip the lace she’s draped in roars in his head, demanding that he take her down a goddamn peg. What he wants, for a moment - just a _moment_ \- is for her to say she’s sorry, in some horrible, twisted way; to apologize, to assure him that she knows he’s a good man that’s just trying to get by, but then she’s done this _-_ _exist_ , that is, exuding this awful tease of perfection that’s as if she’s been drawn from his own mental pornography, all pureblood privilege wrapped up in things he can _tear apart_ \- and he wants her to be as uncertain as he is, if only for a moment.

But he also wants her to scream his name; so, priorities.

“Get on the bed,” he growls, and she sniffs her opposition - as he knew she would - wanting, in her privileged, princess way, to be convinced.

“I don’t think,” she begins, but she has no option but to stop talking as he kisses her again, stealing the words right off her tongue as he backs her against the bed, collapsing on top of her and then slipping an arm under to lift her - _toss_ her, really - back onto the bed.

“These,” he mutters, gesturing to the bra and underwear she’s got on. “Can I come on them?”

“No,” she says.

“Fine,” he decides, unfazed. “But _you_ will.”

He parts her legs, pausing to bite down on her thigh - _for tomorrow,_ he thinks, and then, wanting to be thorough, he bites again, _for the next day -_ and lets his tongue drag against the impossibly thin material. She whimpers, so he sucks her clit through the fabric, letting the added friction do its job.

“Oh,” she gasps, but this is not what he wants to hear from her; he slips a finger inside her, and then another, and his mouth goes to work on her clit as his fingers hit _that spot_ and she’s arching her hips up and it’s fucking _blissful torture_ for her now, and he knows this, because yes, he’s got twenty years of doing this under his belt.

More than that, probably. He’s been doing this longer than she’s even been alive, he thinks, and shoves it aside.

 _This_ one will be particularly enjoyable, he knows.

She comes with a strangled yell and he strokes her clit with his thumb, coaxing her through it.

“Oh?” he asks, peeling her bra away to scrape his teeth against her nipple.

“Fuck,” she breathes, and he agrees.

**o0o0o0o**

**Scene V: Agitato**

He pulls her up and tears the bra and panties away from her; _they might be ripped_ , she thinks, and privately she feels victorious, as though in ruining them she’s ruined a bit of herself. But in a good way.

She thinks he might understand what that feels like, and resolves never to ask.

She peels the leather jacket from him - _she’s fucking naked,_ how does he still have a _jacket_ on? - and throws it on the ground, still smelling it on him. _Hot,_ she thinks, and wonders if she has daddy problems, and decides she doesn’t care, pulling down his trousers and his trunks and then feeling halfway to orgasm just looking at him.

Tattoos. _Prison_ tattoos.

But also, muscles. _Yes._

“Yes,” she murmurs, spreading her fingers out over his chest, and he grabs her hips - _he’s grabby_ , she thinks, and loves it - and maneuvers her against the vanity. She thinks he will set her on top of it - _fine,_ she concedes internally, _if a little lacking in creativity -_ but she is wrong, and she is thrilled, as he turns her to face the mirror.

“Look,” he says gruffly, his hands on her breasts and kneading her nipples between his fingers. “ _Watch,_ ” he clarifies, and _fuck,_ she thinks, as he presses her forward, braced against her elbows on the surface of the vanity as he lines his hips up with hers.

Her hair is a mess, she’s got bruises forming on her chest and her neck, and she can see it all in the mirror; she looks back at him and he is staring, first at her face, and then, as he spreads her legs apart again, at his cock as it nudges at her entrance. He is watching himself enter her and she is watching his wild grey eyes widen, his fingers spreading across the curve of her arse and his tongue flicking over his lip.

She shuts her eyes for a moment as he thrusts inside her. It’s a _close your eyes and feel it_ kind of event, and so she -

“Watch,” he growls again, taking hold of her hair and pulling it back so she’s looking at herself, at the way her eyes are glassy and unfocused, and so she’s looking when he drops his hand to her cunt, sliding his fingers along her clit. “Look at me,” he says, and she does - because she’s a little bit erotically terrified, if such a thing exists - and he’s gritting his teeth and she understands implicitly that he wants her to see _two things_.

One, that this is what she did to him;

And two, that _this is what she does to him._

“More,” she moans, and he tugs a little harder on her hair, pushes her a little further forward, his hips smacking against her arse as he picks up the pace. She shoves his fingers away from her cunt, bringing his hand to her breast as she begins to rub her clit herself. He looks, if anything, impressed, and she locks eyes with him in the mirror as she lets her lips part, accommodating the thin, breathy “ _yes_ ” that escapes them.

She knows, somehow, that there is enough ego between them that even _this_ is a game; she decides, however, as he throws his head back to choke on a sputtered groan in the same moment she cries out in a shockingly carnal whine, that in this game, they both win.

**o0o0o0o**

**Scene VI: Dolcissimo**

“Not bad for a first go,” she taunts, panting, and as punishment he yanks her head back by a fistful of her hair (because _of course_ ) and she smiles at him in the mirror (because _of course_ ) _._

“You’re trouble,” he mutters in her ear, brushing his lips against her neck.

“You have no idea,” she whispers back, turning over her shoulder to kiss him; it’s slow for a moment, and sweet, and then, _abruptly_ , the sweetness turns to venom as she sinks her teeth in, and his fingers bury themselves in her hips as she bites down.

“I’d like to,” he offers after a moment, “have an idea, I mean. If you’ve got the time.”

“Nothing but time,” she says, “and the rest of that bottle.”

He tastes her on his lips and smiles. “Get on the bed,” he says again.

This time, she listens.


End file.
